


Unanswered

by Suckers Dream Obscene (PoisonedDeath)



Category: Placebo
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:54:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedDeath/pseuds/Suckers%20Dream%20Obscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who was he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unanswered

**Author's Note:**

> Literally no idea what this is. There are probably so many typos in this, so I'm sorry.

It was cold.

No, it was warm and he had sweat pouring from his pores, the lighting above him warming his features as he fingered his guitar. His eyes were empty, his voice vacant and his heart left hollow yet still he sang. The pitiful crowd joined in along, all smiles and excitement and so he watched them, jealousy brewing inside. Nothing more than a pathetic picture was the man who stroked strings and broke hearts. Hardly a man. Looked like a woman. Unlucky. Weak and pitiful. A mindfuck. A faggot junkie, a whore. His dark hair, plastered with sweat to his pale, painted face, would dry later but still would not hang healthily; it would instead be limp and dead. Dead. Dead. Dead and oh, so dull was he who whined into a microphone, molesting his guitar with black polished nails. What was he? Who was he? And how did he end up here, in front of so many who latched onto every syllable, breathed with him, screamed back lyrics that he could not recall? Did he even write that? He played, played on but still he ached, yearned for something, for someone more. The audience, all true smiles and real emotions, were a taunting, mocking organism that wanted to swallow him whole. They were all out to get him, to devour him. He would head backstage to his needle and his lines, to his pills and his lies and swallow his sorrow with a burning gulp. They would head home and tell their friends. Hey, maybe it'd even be their new pick up line! Hey, you, drama queen, diva, dickhead, keep playing. His skin itched, burned even and his body grew more and more weary with every passing moment. Almost over. His eyes were being clawed at, surely. It wouldn't stop. Why was he here? This wasn't him, this bravado, was it? Maybe it was, and he'd forgotten. Oh, it's too much. He assaults his guitar with his hands, plays away the memories that will never leave, that play on his mind all day. It's over. He looks back, he leaves and he bursts into tears.


End file.
